


Another Day

by Atanih88



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Public Sex, hints of knotting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which, how weird and fucked up Stiles' life is, gets summed up in the entirety of one day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for TW Holidays. The prompt belonged to someone who dropped out, so it's now a gift for the comm :) Hope you guys enjoy, any and all mistakes are my own.

Stiles doesn't smoke. It always billows into his mouth, a bitter cloud of that he never quite knows what to do with. Every time he tries to swallow, he chokes and it goes down, staining the walls of his throat as it goes. So yeah, Stiles doesn't smoke.

Except that he does twice a year. On the two occasions that he visits his mom's grave.

He's got this old worn packet in his Jeep, stuffed between the cushions of the driver's chair. It's wrinkled and it's a wonder that the cigarettes remain intact after all this time but they've held on for him.

He walks to his mom's grave, feet pushing through dry leaves. They crackle under his steps in their warm colors. Golden yellow, pink, red. They're all over the graveyard, though the resting places are all carefully cleaned out, some with fresh flowers laid on, others with drying bouquets that have managed to resist the bad weather.

Stiles is whistling as he goes, the packet tucked into his back pocket and a bag over his shoulder.

There aren't many people around, an old lady huddled over a tombstone, her scarf up and over the lower half of her face but she's way over at the end. There are a few people that Stiles walked past on his way in too.

There's no sun out. The sky is covered in clouds, drifting along at the wind's insistence, making leaves skitter away.

When he comes to the marble headstone, he sets down the bag he's carrying and gets to work.

"Hey mom," he says, as he sets up, getting out the portable radio and his mom's favorite brand of beer—seriously, his dad would take away the Jeep and computer privileges if he found out, but Stiles knows it would be half-hearted at best—and then tossed the bag down on the ground. 

He settles down, switches the radio on low, the songs from his mother's favorite radio station filtering out to be carried away by the wind.

His mother had been a smoker. But she'd been a hider, always doing it when Stiles wasn't in the room and washing the smell of it off her hands. She never smoked in the house and somehow, she always managed to keep it off her clothes. He still remembers the sheepish smile she'd given him when he'd caught her. She'd sat him down and set the packet of cigarettes between them and explained each fact about smoking. Then she'd looked him in the eye and asked him if he ever planned on doing it. Stiles had been ten at the time and he'd shaken his head and told her no.

He'd get a smack to the back of the head for this.

He lights up with the sound of Nina Simone coming through the radio, the static messing with the lyrics but still nice. She liked this one. He leaves the beer alone. She'd kick his ass for this too but at least this way he has his offerings.

He sits with his legs crossed, cigarette held inelegantly between his fingers. It wobbles a little and he's never gotten the hang of this, but he reckons that's a good thing.

"Dad's doing okay," he says, as he shifts to face the headstone, back hunched as he coughs a little and waves the smoke away from his face, "um." He shrugs a little and gives her name a tight smile. "I survived, I guess?" 

He rests his hand on the rubber of his sneakers, thumb tapping against the sole and his eyes dropping to the glow of the cigarette tip, watching the wisps of smoke. It flares up when the wind sweeps by and he spends a whole minute trying to pull out a leaf that somehow manages to fall down the back of his shirt collar. When he's got that out, he sighs and hangs his head.

"Okay, so maybe dad's not so great. He has his job back, so that's a plus right?" He rubs an absent hand over his cheek, backs of his fingers ghosting over healed skin. But the bone beneath still feels tender. "I keep scaring him," he says, voice quiet, almost drowned out by the rush of the wind, "Sorry." 

He scratches the back of his neck, hisses when the cigarette comes too close to his skin and glares at it for a second before giving up with a roll of his eyes and putting it out. He sucks at it anyway. He sighs. 

"I'm being careful. Well, okay, so that's a lie but I'm… I." He swallows, feels his throat constrict and tighten. "I don't know what I'm doing mom. But I'm trying. Promise." He ignores the break in his voice. "And! _And_! At least there won't be like, any kind of clogging up of dad's arteries. I caught him trying to sneak bacon into the house the other day. It's a work in progress."

His eyes are a bit wet but he ignores that, blinks against the wind and slaps his hands down on his thighs, rubbing them roughly. "So, yeah! All is good, sorta. Scott is okay. And it's been quiet for a while. My grades are good. That's good right? Sorry I forgot your flowers, I'll bring them. Maybe dad will come with me. I think he has a day off coming up soon…with all of the weird supernatural stuff going on, he's been kind of busy."

The radio DJ is talking now, the last strains of the song a back drop for his voice. Stiles fiddles with the tab on the beer can and sweeps his eyes around the cemetery. It's now empty save for him. The clouds are crowding in on each other more and the wind is tugging at the trees set around the graveyard. 

"So. I love you. Hope you're good, mom." Then he gets up and starts packing everything away again, making a face at the wasted cigarette because hey, buying cigarettes when you're underage in a town where your dad is the Sheriff isn’t exactly a piece of cake. Still.

He's tugging on the strings of his bag to close everything up when his cell starts buzzing in the pocket of his hoodie. Stiles lets the bag rest on the ground as he checks it.

Scott.

He stares at his mother's headstone, one hand going to rest on his hip.

"Hey Sc—"

"Stiles!" Scott's voice is panicked over the phone, urgent and it sounds like he's running, panting fast and hard. "Stiles, Derek's missing."

Stiles blinks. "Uh, what?" He looks around, a bit at a loss, but inside he can already feel that tightening, the apprehension a tight band around his stomach. "Maybe he feels like some down time. Not like things have been going his way lately; what with his psychotic uncle back on the map and you know, being rejected by teenage werewolves and all. That's gotta hurt, Scott."

"The Alphas. Isaac says he thinks the Alphas got to him."

And that makes Stiles shut his mouth, pick up his bag and start heading back to his Jeep.

~

"Alphas," Stiles says, slamming the door to the Jeep and rounding the hood as Scott comes out of his house, Isaac in tow.

Scott's looking edgy and Stiles can practically feel the need in him to _do_ something, it's so close to the surface that he's surprised Scott hasn't burst with it already. Isaac, in contrast seems calm, walking at a slower pace, hands tucked into his pockets. But his shoulders have a hunch to them and he's stooping, not like he used to before being knighted with his Wolflihood, but there's a dent to his usual smug armor.

Scott stops on the other side of the Jeep, nodding. "Yeah. That's why Erica and Boyd—they caught them."

Stiles stares at him, eyebrows raised and really not anymore in the know, here. 

Repetition is key in these situations.

"Alphas. As in plural? Awesome. What does it mean? Because I hear words, but they're not actually telling me anything. Try again."

Isaac stops behind Scott and, is Stiles the only one who thinks that's a little too close? He frowns.

Isaac tilts his head back a little, like he's trying to look down his nose at him and hey, there's the Knighted Wolf, that little smugness of _'I know and you don't'_ there.

"They moved in on our territory a couple of weeks ago. Erica and Boyd—Derek and Peter were sure they'd been taken by them. We've been keeping tabs on them, trying not to aggravate the situation."

Scott's jaw is tight now and he's staring hard at the Jeep. Stiles wants to tell him that he shouldn't grind his teeth so hard, it's not healthy and it kind of highlights how Scott's jaw is a bit disproportionate, but hey. Not the time. 

"Ever heard that sharing is caring?" he says instead, throwing his arms in the air, exasperation jittery and electric, making him want to move, forcing him out of his stillness. He closes the distance between them. "They've been here that long and no one thought this was something you should tell us?"

Isaac's glaring at him now. "We were handling it."

Stiles smiles, sharp and fast. "Bang up job." Because here's another threat, another big bad out there, and they've barely had time to regroup, He promised his mom this morning that they were _trying_ to stay safe, would stay safe. That his dad would be safe.

Stiles drops that issue fast though and looks around, hands rubbing over his jeans. "Where's creepy werewolf uncle?"

"He went with Derek. But I haven't seen him since," Isaac says and the smug look is swiped from his face again.

Stiles looks from him to Scott. "You think they got him too?"

Scott shakes his head, ducks his head and rubs at his hair as he glances sideways at Isaac. "No, um, we caught his scent near the Hale house. But we couldn't track it."

Oh. Huh. So they'd already been at this for a bit. 

Stiles rocks back on his feet a little, hands going back to his hips as he folds his lips together and nods at that. Uh-huh. No. That's totally cool. He's cool with this. If he feels a touch of resentment spark to life in the pit of stomach, he forces it back down.

"What about Derek's scent? Sniffed out any of that?"

Scott is giving him puppy eyes, all soft and brown, asking if Stiles is upset without having to ask out loud. Stiles just shrugs it off. He'll think about it later, when he's sitting in his room, mind too hyperaware of everything else to let him sleep properly.

"It's faint, deeper in the woods but we don't know where the Alphas are hiding. We didn't pick up anything too close to the Hale house. We lost his trail by the stream."

Stiles nods. "So they're deeper into it." He thinks for a second. "Okay. Okay. Maybe we should split the territory." He glances over at them. "You two should do your dog thing, cover some ground on foot. I'll follow the stream, work my way back from there and see."

He turns back to the Jeep, the wind battering his side as he goes.

"Stiles."

He stops with the door open and sees Scott on the other side, leaning into the passenger window.

"Maybe… maybe you shouldn't go on your own. What if… what if there's an Alpha and." And that concern on Scott's face is something. Goes a long way to easing that spurt of resentment before it has a chance to become something too big, because he knows Scott is remembering what happened not so long ago with Gerard.

So he does what he can. He smiles. 

"Seriously? Have you met me?" he says. "I've got wolfsbane in my pants and I ain't afraid to show it." He waggles his eyebrows for good measure and feels a sense of accomplishment, feels _good_ about this when it makes a bit of tension seep out of Scott's shoulders, makes him chuckle, half second hand embarrassment, half grateful affection.

Stiles' eyes flick over to Isaac for a second who is standing back and watching their exchange with a blank face and the warning look Stiles gives him is clear, if a little ridiculous. Of the three of them, Scott isn't the one who needs protecting the most.

Stiles gets in the Jeep, something occurring to him. "What about the Argents?"

The smile drops away from Scott's face. "They don't know."

"Should we tell them?"

"Not yet. But I called Deaton."

Stiles nods. "Okay."

They agree to check in every thirty minutes and to meet back at the Hale place. 

Stiles texts his dad and lets him know he'll be late for dinner.

~

The thing is, things tend to pop up when you stop looking.

Which is how he ends up running over a bleeding Derek. 

Well, it's more like Stiles clips him on the side okay? So no one can really call it running him over. That's what Stiles is going with despite the way his heart is knocking into his chest.

He's been on the road for hours, clothes damp from when he'd pulled off to the side and gone into the woods to search on foot near the stream, but he'd found nothing. The wind had ended herding mean looking clouds over Beacon Hills and forty minutes into his drive the rain had started, hard and stinging on his cheeks when he'd been under it.

He hadn't found anything, nothing but a huge expanse of woods growing darker by the second. Which is weird, because he's never found it scary. Sure, there'd been that shivery feeling that settles between his shoulder blades, that apprehension and awareness of things that may be out there. That's something that's always been there. But ever since… well. Every shadow throws him into nine kinds of paranoia. 

But paranoia in Beacon Hills is a good thing now days. Better to be prepared.

He's on his way back, the car lights a beam on the slick road. The rain starts to come down harder. His phone beeps out a message and he glances down at it where he'd tossed it on the passenger seat. He reaches for it and looks up at the road.

And that's Derek. 

That's Derek stumbling into the Jeep's path, looking like death, face gaunt and red splattered up all over one side of it. He throws out a hand towards Stiles' jeep.

Déjà vu.

"Oh my god." The words fall out of his mouth even as he grabs at the wheel with both hands, trying to wrench the car away, foot jamming down on the break. The car hits and the sickening impact reverberates through the car, through Stiles, rattling his bones and he feels a wave of hot and cold sweep over him, leaving the distinct taste of sick in his mouth and a lump ins his throat.

For a moment he can't move. The rain batters the roof of the jeep and he just stares open mouthed, chest feeling bruised at the little rivers of rain sliding down the windshield.

Then he's climbing out of the Jeep in a scramble, limbs all over the place, can't even work the door handle for a moment—and then he's out. The Jeep's lights are spotlighting the trees on the other side of the road, turning the rain silver as it hits the road. The jeep is blocking the road, but he's already running over to the figure struggling to kneel up.

"Jesus, Derek—" water splashes up as he runs but then he's there on the ground, knees scraped because he doesn't really pay attention to how he lands next to Derek.

Derek's like a hunched up lump in the dark. Over the beat of the rain, Stiles hears him panting, like he's been running non-stop for hours, can see the heaving of his back and shoulders.

Stiles swallows, blinking the water out of his eyes, doesn't know what to say because Derek's not grabbing him and strangling him for almost running him over. But maybe that's something he plans on doing for when he recovers.

"Um, Derek? Dude, I'm so sorry," and his hands are hovering over Derek's back because he doesn't know whether he should touch him or not, but he should be making sure he's okay, right? "But, this is what happens when you uh, don't look both ways before crossing the road. I mean, there's loads of different ways that could've gone right? Walking out _into_ a road and putting up a hand, I mean," he's babbling and he knows it, but he's probably also about to die, so he's entitled to have his last words, "sure, it'd work for Jean Grey, but you're—" 

He chokes on his words as Derek lifts his head.

His face, always pale, is a sickly shade against the red splattered up the right side of his face and neck. There are mean cuts that just missed tearing into his right eye, like someone had attempted to sink their sharp nails into his temples but he'd twisted away at the last minute.

Stiles swallows, closes his mouth and hopes to god he doesn't lose it and say something else smartass because right now, that doesn't look like it'd be a good idea. Not unless he wants his entrails to end up decorating the road.

Sort of like how Derek's seem to have done. Because that's blood right there, rusted spots that haven't flaked off not even with the rain pouring down. His hair is a slick mess.

And yeaaah. That's a hole in his side.

"Um, that—" and yeah, so his voice breaks a little, "that looks painful."

Despite the fact that Derek looks like he's about to keel over, it's not enough to keep the glare from coming through. But Stiles is okay with that, because at least this way he knows Derek isn't too far gone. 

"Okay, come on, let's get you in and then we can let Scott—"

He cuts off when Derek's hand shoots out, clenches Stiles' shirt in his fist and tugs on it hard enough that Stiles loses his balance and falls forward. The reason his face doesn't end up personally acquainted with the ground, is because he braces one hand on Derek's shoulder and one on a puddle on the floor. Derek's grunt under Stiles' weight has Stiles jerking back but Derek just tightens his hold on his shirt, and tugs again, vicious and impatient.

" _Stiles_ ," he grits it out between clenched teeth and Stiles can see the way he's trying not to move. "Keep still. Don't move. And shut up."

Stiles opens his mouth the protest that because, really, a guy comes to his rescue and this is what happens? He doesn't get to say it however because next thing he knows, he hears the hood of a car being dented and the hair lifting screech of nails on metal, the sound setting his teeth on edge.

It takes him a second of covering his ears with his hands, to realize that said car is his Jeep and when looks, he only catches a glimpse of a huge shape standing on top of the Jeep, of shoulders rolling under gleaming fur and red eyes focused on the two, cutting through the rain like it's not even there. Then Derek's using the hand that's still tangled up on his shirt, tugging him up and forward into a run.

The thing behind them—the other _Alpha_ —leaps off and Jesus Christ, Stiles can hear it tearing after them and he's not fast enough. Even Derek in all his injured hero glory is doing a better job of it than he is. Only his grip on Stiles keeps him moving, uncaring that Stiles stumbles and his trainers drag on the floor a couple of times before he's takes another few stumbling steps, before it happens again. Wash, rinse, repeat.

"Is it—oh god." He needs to call Scott. But does he have his phone? No. It's all the way back there, in the direction of the psycho Alpha werewolf currently trying to run them down.

The ground is like a giant mud pit with tufts of grass that's trying to suck their feet down as they run, which makes it even harder for Stiles to keep himself from bouncing off of trees as Derek drags him behind him.

And seriously. Why. Why him?

The other wolf behind them is panting loud and clear, like it wants them to know just how close it is. How close it is to taking them down and tearing their skin from their bones.

And then it's happening. Stiles is taken down. The momentum of it snaps off the grip Derek has on him. 

The air slams out of his lungs when he hits the ground and it feels like something crushing the bones of his chest, the weight settling dangerously on his back and he can feel his spine protest even as he wheezes, his cheek sinking into wet dirt, dirty water filling his nose and mouth. The earthy smell of it is everywhere and his eyes, he has to close them, can't even do anything but flail under the Alpha when it settles harder on him. The mud is slipping in where his top has ridden up, cool and shocking against the heat of his skin and Stiles tries to wriggle away from that too but it just makes him feel the claws on his back. And the drool. That's drool on the back of his neck.

The low growl and the waft of hot breath on the nape of his neck makes him freeze, the fear immobilizing as he feels it in every inch of his body, the hairs on the back of his arms raising as it rumbles too close. His lungs feel like they’re swelling because he's opening his mouth to draw in air but that's not what he's getting.

He's not going to make it home for dinner.

But then he's breathing again, the tight squeeze on his lungs easing. He lifts his face out of the mud and the air feels too cold, feels like it's doing more damage to his throat than any smoke he's ever had.

His limbs feel too heavy, his clothes are water logged and covered in mud, another thing keeping him down..

A crack echoes around him. Stiles takes a deep breath, the fear still running strong in his veins and pushes himself up on shaky arms until he's on his knees. He's got mud, thick and coating half of his face and he wipes absently at it, feeling dazed still. He looks over his shoulder to see Derek slumped on the floor, an arm over his side and staring down at the prone werewolf at his feet. 

Stiles rubs the rain out of his eyes and _looks_. 

The Alpha's neck is ripped wide open in what looks like a vicious cut that goes almost all the way around. Odd, the way the skin is hanging out, giving him a peek into the insides. It makes Stiles think of the shine that pomegranate seeds have. 

He feels kind of sick.

"Awesome," he hears himself say, voice coming out strangled. He coughs to get rid of it. "This is just…awesome."

Derek glares over at him. "What are you doing here, Stiles?"

Which would've pissed Stiles off if Derek hadn't paused between each word, breathing through it and looking like a puppet that'd had its strings cut.

Nope. It pisses Stiles off anyway.

"I don't know Derek. Maybe because you've been missing and your little puppy came running for help? Which, by the way, thanks for letting us know about our new friendly neighbors, the pack of _Alphas_."

"Shut up and move. There are more of them."

"Really?" Stiles opens his eyes wide, mock surprised. "I thought that was sort of implied, you know, sort of, when they're called, _a pack_. Again. The one, you forgot to tell us about."

See, that look, right there, on Derek's face? Yeah, that look says that Stiles is going to be hurting in more places than one. Or, would, if Derek didn't look like he was about to keel over.

"They've been tracking me."

"What about your creepy uncle? Any chance we got a blessing in disguise and they tore him a new one?"

Another look.

"Guess they don't wanna do us any favors then." He shuts up then.

The woods are eerily quiet around them, just the sound of the rain as it continues to fall, not as hard when it's hindered by the trees over them.

Stiles clucks his tongue and looks around, nodding. "Well, not that this isn't fun and all, but, maybe we should stop you know, rolling around in the mud, I know it's like a dog thing—" 

O-kay and that's a growl, which means it's a no-no with the dog jokes at this moment in time.

Stiles stands, ignoring the way his back is still feeling the weight of a full grown werewolf standing around on it and he looks at Derek, uncertain whether he should offer him a hand. 

He might lose it if he tries.

His theory is proven when Derek gets up, movements slow now, arm still wrapped around his side.

"So what's the plan?" He looks around and rubs at the mud still on his face, the rain not doing much to wash it away. They've moved far enough away from the road that he can't see the lights of the Jeep anymore.

Either that or someone's turned them off.

The thought is sobering, throwing the fear adrenalin off for a moment. When Stiles looks back at Derek he's standing upright, trying to assess how much shit they're in.

"We can't go back to the road can we?" It's more a statement than anything.

Derek throws him a side glance, then nods, a sharp jerk of his head, jaw tense and mouth sealed. 

So he's being tracked even now.

"The uh. Won't the rain help? Covering up your scent I mean?"

"It would," Derek says, still sounding like he's speaking from gritted teeth, "if I wasn't bleeding all over the place." 

Stiles looks back at Derek's wound. "Oh. Right."

And that's of course when Derek just sort of collapses.

For a moment, all Stiles can do is stare.

How is this his life?

~

It's weird.

The last time Stiles was this close to Derek; they'd been in a swimming pool. 

Stiles is appreciating just how much being in the water helped him with keeping Derek up as he finally finds a spot that's halfway decent. The foliage is a lot denser here, the leaves from the trees overlapping with each other and letting only a little of the rain trickle through.

He stops by the tree, breathing hard, arms close to numb. He can't feel his fingers, which is why when he tries to slip Derek off of his back; he kind of lets go too fast and Derek falls to the ground with a thud that has Stiles wincing. And really, if an Alpha is tracking them right this minute, then all Stiles can hope for is that they're close enough to the area Scott and Isaac were searching that they'll find them first, instead.

He throws himself down next to Derek, taking his unconsciousness as the go ahead for sitting closer than should be allowed, because werewolves? Extreme high body temperature. Something which Stiles is very grateful for right this second. 

His clothes are soaked through and he thinks he might be going into shock. Though he'd thought he'd be free of shock after all the near death experiences he'd gone through but no. Apparently, almost getting killed isn't something he can get used to. Which sucks, he totally deserves immunity here.

He sits there for a minute, head back against the thick trunk and closes his eyes, breathes through his nose, deep and slow, eases that constricting feeling in his chest. He tries not to think about sitting at his mother's grave that morning, and about how maybe he should've told her he'd be seeing her sooner rather than later. 

Most of all he tries not to think about his dad, sitting at the table at home, waiting for Stiles to come in through the door.

The feeling that wells up in his chest is familiar now. A mixture of guilt and frustration and sadness, all tangled up in one another. But the one that gets to him the most is the resignation. Because even if he gets through this, there's going to be another time. And another after that. And another. If he survives that long. 

And somewhere along the line, he won't have his dad anymore, because it'll have been one time too many.

He doesn't want to think about that day. The day where he'll come home and his dad won't be waiting for him anymore.

He kind of wishes he'd stashed a cigarette in his pocket now. Not because he feels like one, but he thinks it'd be kind of symbolic to have one now.

"This sucks," he says instead. He lets his head roll against the tree and peers over at Derek.

He's a line of warmth pressed against Stiles' side. It's funny, all those times he'd been thrown around; he hadn't realized that they were about the same height. 

The line between Derek's eyes is pinched, like it always is, but his eyes are closed and his skin has a sheen to it that Stiles isn't sure is just from the rain. 

He leans forward, eyes adjusted to the darkness now. Careful, half expecting Derek to wake up and knock him sideways for sitting so close, he peels the side of Derek's jacket away from his injured side.

He's completely bled through the t-shirt. He glances again at Derek's face, but the man isn't moving. 

Stiles moves up onto his knees because the angle is awkward and he can't see the damage. He misses the warmth straight away, wonders how he's never realized that Scott was this hot—no, not that way—and shuffles closer to Derek until his knees are pressed against the line of Derek's thigh and he can lean over and tug the t-shirt up.

He gags a little when he sees it.

That's—torn skin. Definitely torn skin and, oh god, is that a rib?

He fights the need to throw up his lunch, which had been _excellent_ , so screw you in the face, life, no, not gonna ruin that too. Still, if he has to press the back of his hand to his mouth to reinforce how much he is _not_ going to throw up, that's fine. That's manly. 

The smell of blood is heavy in the air, overpowering the earthy smell of rain and wet earth. It sticks to the back of his throat even as Stiles forces himself to look again. It's not pretty.

He eases back up and runs a hand over his head and then drops it back down, resting them on his knees and looking at Derek.

He doesn't look much difference when unconscious. His eyebrows are still foreboding, his face fixed in that permanent scowl. But—and it's kind of disturbing—there's a vulnerability there. Maybe because of how his mouth is a little slack. 

Like Stiles he's soaked through, maybe worse because god knows how long he's been trying to throw the Alphas off of his trail. He looks at Derek and thinks that maybe, maybe Derek is like him. Because if they both die here now, then there are things they both haven't had a chance to experience. Derek more than Stiles, what with Derek having dated a psycho, and having his parents murdered and all. 

Not much of life. 

And huh, isn't that interesting. Stiles, relating to Derek.

"You're supposed to be a badass Alpha," he says, voice low, eyes roaming over Derek's face and landing back on that little glimpse of vulnerability, the touch of a grimace to Derek's mouth, the little bit of rain that's gathered over his top lip. "So why aren't you healing like you're supposed to?"

"Alpha."

Stiles jumps, eyes snapping up from Derek's mouth to his now open eyes and he overbalances, landing on his ass. "What? What?" There's a bit of a hysterical note to his voice, but that's a natural thing when he's just been caught staring at Derek's mouth like a creeper. The thought makes him lick his own mouth, feeling self-conscious.

It looks like Derek can barely keep his eyes open, and his lips don't move much as he speaks. But that's definitely an eye roll right there. 

Asshole.

"We heal slower," he says, "if you're injured by an Alpha. You heal slower."

"Oh." He looks back down at the wound. "Right. Like what happened with Scott when you two threw down", he makes a little boxing motion for good measure, but it doesn't look like Derek appreciates it. He drops his hands back down. "Yeeeah. So, you won't get an infection or anything right?"

"Infection," Derek says, voice deadpan. "You're an idiot."

"Actually, I'm the guy saving your ass."

Derek stares at him, mouth firming. It takes that little trace of something _softer_ , away, and Stiles can't help looking back down to catalogue the changes it made. 

A bit of rain falls into his eyes but he blinks it away, keeps staring. It's not as if Derek hadn't caught him looking. Besides, he's not in any position to beat the shit out of Stiles right now and Stiles needs a distraction from the big bad Alphas who're out there wanting to kill them. If that distraction happens to be staring at Derek's mouth and thinking about how it can change his face then, hey, extenuating circumstances and stuff.

It takes a few pointed looks from Derek, looking from himself to Stiles with his eyebrows high up, for Stiles to get that him being so close to Derek isn't exactly a welcome thing.

"Hey, me," he points to himself, "fragile cold human who has just dragged your ass across half of the damn woods so you wouldn't become werewolf chow. I'm wet and cold." He points at Derek. " _You_ , are the Human Torch. Take it like a man."

He should really remember that Derek has dangerous reflexes even when his strength is impaired by injury, because the next thing he knows, Derek's hand is around his neck yanking him forward.

Stiles chokes a little but manages to brace his hands on the tree behind him just before their faces crash together—because wouldn't that be another highlight of the night. It doesn't keep him from running his mouth though. "I really think we should talk about how violence is really not conducive to a healthy relationship."

"I can still rip your head off," Derek says, words a deliberate calm and even. 

Stiles nods fast, trying to arch away from him at the same time. But that makes Derek's nose twitch and he leans a little closer. He sniffs.

Stiles looks at him, not a little horrified. "Dude, are you _sniffing_ me?"

"You stink of smoke," Derek says, and shoves him off. It's not as bad as Derek's usual violent bursts so, yeah. "I suggest you find a different way to get warm." And then the little bastard closes his eyes and leans his head back against the tree again, like he's settling in to sleep or something.

Stiles narrows his eyes on him. "Anyway I want?"

All Derek does is open one eye to glare him and then closes it again.

Fuck it then. 

The look on Derek's face when Stiles closes his hands either side of his face is priceless and Stiles even let's himself grin a little as he stays there, hovering over Derek. His eyes fall back to Derek's mouth and then he goes that one step further and lays one on him.

It's quick, more of a peck that's a lot louder than necessary, but that's because Stiles is messing around. He likes to think that if he were doing it for real, then he'd be smooth. Stiles can be the master of smooth if he wants. 

He's the smooth master.

Still, he has a smirk on his face as he pulls away. "Tell a teenage boy to find a way to warm up, man; you should be careful what you wish for…" Stiles stops, smile falling off his face. Because Derek's eyes, yeah, they've gone red. A vibrant red that are drilling holes into him and as much as Stiles wants to let go of his face right now, that fear thing, where it likes making him freeze where he is? Yeah. So that's happening.

"Um, so, hey, that was a joke," he says, swallows fast and almost chokes on his own spit, "and I totally get that, _that_? Not funny. Nope. No, sorry, way out of line. So I'll just uh, take my hands back now, but you know, you were asking for it—but not really! I get that that's what all creepers say, but you said I should—"

Derek's hand is back on his throat and this time his fingers are digging in a little harder. "Shut. Up."

"Okay," Stiles croaks, "shutting up. Shutting up right now." He's finally peeled his hands away from Derek's face and he's got them palm up, trying to make soothing motions. Though the way his night is going, that's going to backfire on him too.

"When this is over, I'm going to rip your face off," Derek says. 

His hand slides around to the back of Stiles neck and pulls him forward. Stiles follows, not wanting to do anything to set him off but—but he's being pressed to Derek's chest now, the hand on the back of his neck tucking his face against the curve of Derek's shoulder.

"Sure," his voice is muffled, "sure. But um. What's happening?"

Derek turns his face into Stiles' neck, and oh God what is happening. Derek's doing the sniffing thing again.

"I'm weak," Derek's practically spitting the words out, "right now. I'm not strong enough, physically. It's taking it out of me, healing this wound. The wolf's been trying to take over since I got it. And now this. _You_ , have just given it incentive."

"What?" He grabs at Derek's shoulders feeling a little lost here. His heart feels like it's right underneath his tongue, the beat of it something he can't quite speak around.

The answer to that is a hand grabbing his ass and teeth sinking into his neck and _holy shit_. It startles him enough that he lets Derek's hand guide one of his knees over to Derek's other side. 

He's straddling Derek. He's straddling Derek _I'll-rip-your-throat-open-with-my-teeth_ Hale. And said teeth are currently on his neck, biting hard enough that Stiles is seeing stars and not the good kind.

"Okay, so, I know you have fantasies about a special chew toy," he swallows hard, because he's close to panicking here, "but this isn't the time or the place. Remember your friends the Alphas? Because they remember you and they're probably looking for you right now—"

Derek's licking him, a hot swathe of tongue on the place he'd just bitten. It's a little rough on Stiles skin and Derek's hands are still holding him in place. He's warm where he's plastered to Derek's front and Derek is tugging him down lower which, oh, okay. So he's now officially sitting on Derek Hale.

There's a moment of disorientation when he registers how hard Derek's thighs are under him.

"Uh, Derek. Think you can have some words with your wolflihood and explain that this is not— _oh my god_." He lets out this undignified strangled sound as one of Derek's legs rocks up between Stiles legs, rubbing up against his balls. "Down boy, this wasn't what I was going for."

Derek jerks Stiles' head back from where he was pressing it down against his shoulder. He stares at him. If anything his eyes have just become a more intense shade of red. Stiles can't do much except stare right back, nerves getting under his skin. His cheeks feel hot, and he's not sure what exactly Derek is waiting for. Except then Derek is pulling him closer, firm but gentle, tilting his face up and mouth slotting easy as a knife through warm butter, against Stiles'.

_This_ isn’t a peck. It's not something done to irritate or one up someone, it's not a ha-ha thing. It's Derek's mouth on his, mouthing at Stiles' lower lip and a whimper coming from Derek's throat. And suddenly yeah, Stiles is feeling warm, not just where he's pressed to Derek but all over. 

Because he's being kissed.

Derek's hand moves to his chin, thumb and forefinger exerting pressure on the hollows of Stiles cheeks, opening his mouth up. 

The sound Stiles makes then is ragged, a noise he's never quite heard himself make before. It's embarrassing. But he doesn't care much about that because Derek's tongue is in his mouth, filthy hot and wet, licking into him like this is something he's mapped out in his head and now he's executing it. 

It's a deliberate assault on his mouth and Stiles tightens his grip on Derek's shoulder, fists the leather there and shifts on his lap, slowly letting Derek take his weight. 

His eyes are still open, Stiles can't close them, not when he's feeling so completely stumped by this, even when his confusion and surprise are being shaken off by the first strains of arousal. He feels it low on his belly,belly; in the way his dick feels heavier in his jeans, in the way that he feels the need to bear his hips down a little harder, to feel his dick press against something solid. Like Derek's abs. Those will do.

So he opens his mouth wider, watching with half-mast eyes, blurred glimpses of Derek's face, the smudge of his eyelashes. 

Then Stiles closes his eyes, hauls Derek closer and starts to kiss back because, if this is happening then no way is he wasting his first kiss. So he kisses back, a little clumsy, a lot determined and is rewarded by the way Derek changes the angle and fucks back into his mouth, hips arching up into the space between Stiles' thighs like he's forgotten about the wound on his side.

Stiles pulls his head back, breaks the kiss with a dirty wet sound that has blood pounding in his ears and in his cock. He stares at Derek. His mouth feels kind of abused. He licks them and his breath stutters out of him when he sees Derek's gaze, still red and feral, track the movement with scary intensity.

"So. That happened," he says and then flails when Derek shoves him back and off of him. "Dude—what the—whoa, okay, that's kind of fast, I don't think—" his breath comes out of him in a rush as Derek's finger slides inside the waistband of his jeans, starts tugging. Derek must not be all there because he's in a completely different place, too focused as he tugs at Stiles' jeans.

"Yo, Derek, anyone in there?" Maybe Stiles should stop talking because his voice sounds thin and strained between the gasps of air he's dragging in.

"Stiles. Just—,don't." Yeah, Derek doesn't sound like he's doing much better.

Stiles can feel the color in his cheeks butcheeks but he nods fast because despite how bizarre this whole scenario is, it's also fucking _hot_ and he decides to lend a hand. They both struggle with his belt and pulling everything down until finally, Stiles' jeans are tight and uncomfortable around his lower thighs and he's is being spun around, face pressed to the tree. The bark scratches through the mud still caked on his face

"Oh my god," he says, closing his eyes, hand gripping the tree trunk hard enough that he thinks he'll have splinters after this. Derek is moving around behind him and the hands on Stiles' waist have nails that are way too sharp. "Won't the uh, Alphas be able to—to smell this or something?" he asks.

Derek doesn't seem to care because he curls over Stiles back, belly a center of heat where it presses against the skin of Stiles' lower back. He feels the brush of Derek's knuckles and can't help tensing for a split second. He can feel Derek's pubes—oh my fucking god his _pubes_ against the crack of his ass. But then his freakoutfreak out is stopped midway when, with a shudder and a shivery 'fuck', he feels Derek's dick slide right between his cheeks, nudging against his balls with a soft grunt against the back of Stiles' neck.

Okay, he sees how this is going to go. He can work with this.

Derek's hips grind against his ass as he corkscrews his hips against him, moving against Stiles in steady hard thrusts that have Stiles humping back. He drops his hand to his own erection, palming it and thumbing at his slit.

Seriously, if this is what saving Derek leads to, then he's all for it.

"Stiles," Derek grunts his name into the back of Stiles' neck, mouths at it, and nips at the skin there with too sharp teeth. He hadn't been kidding about the wolf taking over. He has a tight hand over the front of Stiles' throat again, another one locked tight around his hip, effectively locking him down, and he's grunting, soft and quiet into Stiles' skin with every thrust.

"Jesus, Derek." That's all he's capable of saying because he's a teenager and he's not going to last long. His hand is pumping hard and fast over his own dick, his hips jerking without rhythm as he feels Derek rubbing off on him, feels wetness on the back of his balls that makes him whimper pathetically and curl in against the tree. "Come on," he mutters, head hanging low and he's gasping, his stomach feels like it's cramping from how hard he's tensing from this. His hips lose any semblance of control as he pumps into his fist two more times and comes all over his fist.

And that must do something for Derek. He probably smells it because he whines— _whines_ —fits his mouth to the top of Stiles' spine and digs his teeth in. He thrusts against him hard enough that Stiles' head knocks into the tree, a hard ball like thing pressing right into Stiles' asshole even as he feels Derek's come slick and warm on the back of his balls, the insides of his thighs.

He shudders again as Derek's fingers slide down from his hip to comb through the short hairs just above Stiles' dick and it's a bit of an overload.

"Oh my god," he says again, but this time barely above a whisper. His eyes are wide open and he's staring at the come spattered ground he's kneeling over.

Derek is still plastered to his back, shivering lightly and still mouthing at Stiles' skin.

Oh god.

"Oh _god!_ Stiles what the hell!"

And at Scotts' voice any and all hotness seeps out of the situation. Stiles just sags against the tree and closes his eyes hard. Maybe this is all in his head.

At least he got to come.

He's pretty sure his hard-on would've died otherwise.

~

Isaac pulls the Camaro to a stop a few houses down from Stiles'.

In the back, Scott and Derek have stayed quiet.

It's a mix of Scott wanting to murder Derek over Stiles' virtue—no, seriously, he used those exact words—and the initial tense exchange once they'd gotten in the car about how this wouldn't have happened if Derek had just asked for help. 

Derek's response to that one hadn't been pretty and it had left them to drive home in a harsh silence that even Stiles hadn't been tempted to fill. 

Stiles had just spent the night getting humped by a wolf who he doesn't like that much, although now he thinks that's not entirely true, got walked in on by his friend and said wolf's little pack member, so yeah. Stiles is kind of feeling the need for silence right now.

Now, as they sit there, the rain having softened into a gentle drizzle, Stiles looks out the passenger window, searching out his house, something thick and tight lodged in the center of his chest.

The lights are on.

He takes a deep breath and leans his head against the door for a second, feeling overwhelmed. His dad is waiting for him. 

The conversation he's about to have won't be pretty but. His dad is waiting for him.

"Stiles? You okay?"

He straightens up, glances over his shoulder at Scott and nods. "Yup, no. All good here—just gearing up to face the music, etcetera, etcetera." He forces a smile he's not feeling and is glad when he sees Scott relax back into his seat.

"Thanks for, you know," Scott says, with a small shrug and a hint of a smile around his mouth.

Stiles nods, drums his fingers against the door. "Sure. Anytime you need my mad skills."

The hint of a smile turns into a full-fledged one and Stiles can't help returning it with one of his own, despite everything. 

He looks up into the mirror, finds Derek's eyes, open and lucid and staring right at him. His throat goes dry and he becomes hyperaware of the dried come stuck to his abdomen, the trail of hair lower down that Derek had combed his fingers through.

He thinks he manages to cover up the tremble he can't help at the sense memory, but in the mirror he sees Derek's nostrils flare and the brief flash of red.

Yeah. Looks like they'll be talking later.

He takes a deep breath and looks away.

"I'll see you guys later. Let me know what Deaton says." He nods at Isaac who is watching him with that expression Stiles hates, but Stiles waves anyway, opens the door and slams it closed behind him. 

He doesn’t look back as he makes his way down the street towards his house. From where he's standing, he can see his dad pacing by the kitchen window.

He's got the lack of a Jeep and a phone to explain away right now. Everything else he'll have to think about later.

Still, he thinks he feels the weight of Derek's gaze on him all the way home.

The End


End file.
